


Mistletoe

by Likelavender



Series: So Much Present Inside The Present [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Community: trope_bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likelavender/pseuds/Likelavender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Simone and the tiny, baby Simones leave, Clint’s apartment feels strangely empty. He’s pretty sure Kate’s still mad at him and he hasn’t figured out how to tell her he stayed. She probably already knows, but he pulls out his phone anyway and types half a text. He struggles between “thanks” or “you were right”, maybe both, and “I stayed because of you” is on the tip of his tongue but he can’t even bring himself to type it, somehow it feels like too much, even though it’s all he wants to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic for this fandom, and I basically know only what I've learned in Fraction's Hawkeye and what I've read on wikipedia, so go easy on me :)
> 
> Thanks to the wooooonderful Koren M for betaing and being generally awesome and supportive.

When Simone and the tiny, baby Simones leave, Clint’s apartment feels strangely empty. He’s pretty sure Kate’s still mad at him and he hasn’t figured out how to tell her he stayed. She probably already knows, but he pulls out his phone anyway and types half a text. He struggles between “thanks” or “you were right”, maybe both, and “I stayed because of you” is on the tip of his tongue but he can’t even bring himself to type it, somehow it feels like too much, even though it’s all he wants to say.

“I will never lie to you, Kate,” plays on repeat in his head as he pulls on his lumpy winter coat and makes the trek to her apartment.

It’s Christmas time in Manhattan so of course the subways are packed and the sidewalks are worse, but Clint can’t find the energy to be bothered. He shuffles his way towards 83rd street and regrets wearing his chucks when a bus drives by leaving everything below his knees soaked with a mix of mud and melting snow. The doorman at Kate’s place look at him skeptically when Clint approaches and that’s when he remembers the tape on his nose and bruises covering most of his face. He half expects the doorman to block his way but it’s just pure luck that Kate’s leaving at the same moment.

“Kate. Katie!”

He jogs the few steps it takes to get next to her, ignoring the twinge he feels in his face with each footfall. She’s wearing that purple hat again, the one she wore when she gave him his bow back, and he can’t help but notice the strands of black hair that have escaped her braid, brushing her cheek whenever a car passes by. She’s saying something but his eyes slip down to her lips, they’re pink and shiny with some kind of gloss or chapstick and Clint is so rattled by the fact that he’s never noticed her lips before that nothing she says registers.

“Jesus, Clint. You’re not even listening,” Kate rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. He blinks once and his eyes flick back up to hers. Her brow furrows and she tilts her head to the side. “Are you concussed?” she asks, half joking, but her hand on the side of his cheek and jaw belie her concern.

“No, sorry,” Clint pauses, blinking hard again, “just frozen. A bus got me on the way here,” he says, pointing to his jeans, still dripping with slush. They stand together in silence for a moment before Clint blurts out, “Can we talk?”

Since when have things ever been this hard with Kate before?

She agrees, of course, and drags him into her building. The elevator ride is quiet, leaving Clint to shove his hands deep in his jeans pockets and watch the numbers change. The elevator doesn’t stop until they’re well past the twenties and Clint raises his eyebrows at her.

She shrugs. “It was my sister’s, before she got married,” she says, as if that explains everything.

When she opens the front door Clint holds back his instinctual low whistle and trades it for a “God, Katie, why would you ever want to stay at my place?”

The word stay hangs heavy in the air.

Kate doesn’t seem to notice him freeze at the idea of her _staying_ staying at his place because it’s crossing his mind for the first time and she leaves through a door on the left.

Clint scuffs his toe against the hardwood floors trying to get the flashes of black hair spread across his pillows and small hands calloused like his own on his bare skin out of his head and chooses to check out her apartment instead. It’s decorated for Christmas, much better than his, which honestly is kind of saying something, since Clint feels like he did a pretty good job with his place. There’s a tree in the corner next to the windows facing the street below, twinkle lights are wrapped around the banister on her balcony, there are garlands and poinsettias and God, how has he never been here before? Clint is in the middle of looking through her CDs, (she doesn’t own any tapes, definitely no eight tracks, just a couple vinyl records but they’re new artists – he’s half convinced they’re not even hers and Clint finds another thing to remind him how young she really is), when she comes back to the living room with a pair of (his) sweatpants and that purple shirt he was wearing the day he tried to organize his trick arrows.

“Where did you even get these?”

“Bathroom is down the hall to the right,” she ignores his question and drops his clothes into his arms.

The bathroom is clean, bright, and clearly not Kate’s, which Clint finds alarmingly disappointing. He changes quickly, hanging his clothes to dry and feeling strangely naked without his shoes and socks.

Kate is sitting curled on her couch when he makes his way back to the living room and he takes the seat diagonal from her.

“Nice decorations.”

“Thanks, Teddy and Billy helped. By help I mean they did most of it.”

Their chuckles fill the empty space but fade quickly. Silence falls again and Clint isn’t sure he can handle it being this awkward with her.

“You’re good, Katie.”

She shifts in her seat, pulling her knees closer to her chest, “So you’ve said.”

“And you’re a lot like me, Kate, you are.”

“You’ve said that before, too Clint. Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” the corner of Kate’s lips lift even though her brow furrows deeper.

Clint pauses, laughing a bit. “I probably do, but I know what I’m saying. You’re a lot like me Kate, but you’re not _exactly_ like me. And sometimes I need people to remind me of things. Or to do things. And I told you before that I don’t want you to get hurt, and at the time I wasn’t really thinking about getting hurt emotionally but of course that’s an option and I know it wasn’t even about me abandoning you, or anything, not really, anyway. Maybe?”

Clint runs a hand through his hair and lets out a breath of air, “This is going horrible, if you were wondering.”  

“I don’t really need to wonder, boss.”

“Ask me why I stayed.”

“I know why you stayed.”

“Ask me anyway.”

She sighs, humoring him, like always. “Why did you stay?”

“I stayed because of you. I stayed because you reminded me that I’m not alone, that I don’t have to be, right?”

Kate nods, uncurling her legs and scooting to the edge of the couch.

“So, thanks. And sorry about the scare. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”

“‘Okay’? That’s it?”

Kate shrugs, “Yep.”

Clint lets out a breath and falls back against the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. He feels more than hears Kate get up and pad into the kitchen, he gives it a few minutes before following her.

“Remind me again why we always end up hanging out at my place?” Clint asks as he leans against her kitchen island, looking at her coffeemaker with something akin to worship.  
Kate laughs and gets out the grinder and beans without even asking. “Give me five minutes, Hawkeye, and we’ll get your caffeine fix for the day.”

Clint watches as she turns her back to him and reaches to the top shelf where the coffee beans are kept, flashing the dimples at the small of her back where her shirt rises. He can’t look away, and can’t stop wondering what that skin would feel like under his fingers, or taste like under his tongue. She’s still busy grinding the coffee and Clint takes a moment to adjust his sweatpants and clear his throat. Yeah, he said he didn’t want to sleep with her, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t look. Actually, scrap that, he thinks, it sounds like something a creepy uncle would say.

“Katie am I like a creepy uncle to you?” it’s out of his mouth before he can even stop it and maybe he really does have a concussion.

The coffee is brewing now, and Kate leans back to rest against the kitchen island next to him. She’s so close that their arms brush and Clint can feel his body reacting to it like he’s some sex starved teenager.

She laughs, nudging her shoulder with his and rolling her eyes. “Gross, Clint, why would you ask that? The answer’s no, by the way. Obviously.”

Clint shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Why is it obvious?”

Kate sighs and looks first to her ceiling and then back to Clint’s face. Her eyes are dancing and joyful and _alive_ and god, she’s perfect.

“You’re such a dummy,” she says, grinning, and then her mouth is on his, and her tongue is pressing insistently at the seam of his lips and Jesus Christ she’s kissing him.

It’s fantastic.

Her body turns and fits its way between his open legs, her breasts feel heavy and warm against his still cold chest, and her mouth tastes like fresh brewed coffee. Somehow his hands find their way into her hair, pulling that purple hat from her head causing more hair to slip from her braid. She presses her hips against him and opens her mouth with a gasp when she feels him hard under the thin cotton of his sweatpants. His teeth nip at her bottom lip as he pulls away, which isn’t exactly discouraging and Kate moves across his jaw, kissing each of his bruises delicately before moving down his neck.  

“Katie…Kate, Kate. Do you even know how old I am?” Her tongue dips into the hollow over his collarbone before she sucks a bruise into the crook of his neck. His hips roll against hers on their own accord, and he swears.

“I don’t know,” She says coyly, a filthy smile on her face as she palms his cock through his sweats, “like forty-five?”

His head drops to her shoulder with a groan. “Ugh, Katie, don’t joke like that,”

Kate laughs, deep and throaty and slides her hand under the waistband of his pants.

The front door opens and Teddy rushes in, throwing his coat on the ground and already rambling about some clueless cab driver, but stops mid sentence when he sees Clint’s back pressed against the kitchen island and Kate peeking over his shoulder.

“What’s…happe–”

“Mistletoe,” Kate says, evenly, sliding her hand out of his pants to press a chaste kiss to Clint’s lips and points above their head to the little green bunch Teddy and Billy had pinned there not three days before. She leans in closer to Clint’s ear and he makes a conscious effort to keep his hands on the kitchen counter where Teddy can see them. “ _This_ is why we don’t come over to my place more often.”  



End file.
